Gentle Steps
by opalescence
Summary: Post Potential. Spike is still in the basement and Buffy is upstairs. He takes some gentle steps.


Thoughts streamed through his head like a parade until he could barely concentrate on his task. And, he had better start concentrating, or he might lose a finger. Before leaving for work, Xander had asked Spike to sharpen Buffy's ever-growing arsenal of weapons with a power grinder, of all things. Spike was beginning to long for a good, old fashioned hand file and whetting block. It seemed the Slayer felt that lopping off the heads of more Turok-hans might be in everyone's near future.  
  
The array of orange sparks flying from the grinding stone made him consider the reclaimed soul burning inside of him. When it wasn't torturing him with reminders of the havoc he wreaked upon humankind for well over a century, it was filling his head with foolish thoughts of love and longing for a woman he could never have; a woman whom he had seen grow from a light-hearted, curvaceous girl, into the woman she was today: a thin, increasingly grim warrior, with the weight of world on her slender shoulders...again.   
  
Spike released the foot pedal, lifting his goggles up to his forehead, drawing the axe up to his face to examine the blade. Just a little more...right there. He sighed and pulled the goggles back down as he replaced the axe on the stone. With Buffy's portent of gloom and doom on their horizon, it seemed silly to be thinking of such trivial matters as love. But, he was a fool for it, after all. Regardless, the memories now invading his mind and soul had a life of their own. He couldn't stop them any more effectively than he could stop his love for her. As his sleep was usually plagued with nightmares, Spike found relief only when he was seeing after the young girls upstairs, or training them down here in his little dungeon.   
  
On this particular day, the Slayer, Bit, and the gaggle of Potentials were out in the backyard trying their hand at archery and martial arts training. Buffy had asked him to critique their form from the safety of kitchen door, as it was completely overcast today, but Spike had concluded it was safer down here. He stood upright again and smiled in satisfaction. One more axe ready for battle. He set it in the chest by his side, and then groaned as he rolled his aching neck this way and that, chin to his chest, hearing his bones readjust. He looked at the ceiling, lifted both arms over his head and stretched. 

Spike's senses suddenly alerted him to a presence behind him, and he swung around in battle stance. 

"Geez, Slayer! Give a guy some warning before sneaking up on him like that!" 

Buffy stood at the bottom of the stairs, an amused smile playing on her face, her eyes dancing. "You're right, I'm sorry. I was just having so much fun watching you do the manly-man thing there with that...machine-thingy." 

"Yeah, well Xander gave me your orders." 

"Um, do you know your butt-crack is showing?" Buffy said, trying to suppress her giggles. 

Spike grimaced, utterly embarrassed, and quickly hiked up the borrowed jeans. It had seemed important to Xander that Spike "feel the part of the metal smith," by donning a white tank top tee and Levi blue jeans Xander had "outgrown." 

"The goggles are lovely, too, Spike," Buffy said solemnly, but her laughing eyes betrayed her. 

"Oh right. Make fun of the help, why don't you?" he said, quickly pulling off the goggles. 

"Aw, I'm sorry, Spike," Buffy smiled petulantly. "I was just thinking of the last time I saw you in goggles." 

Spike couldn't imagine what she was talking about. 

At his clueless expression, Buffy continued, "Silly, it was the day we had to get Dawn out of Sunnydale and away from Glory! You rented that wreck of a mobile home, remember? The windows were all covered in foil so you wouldn't burn up." She chuckled. "If I hadn't been so upset at the time, I could really have had some fun teasing you about how ridiculous you looked, all sprawled out behind the wheel in your duster and those silly goggles." Buffy couldn't suppress her mirth anymore and let loose, tears of laughter starting to accumulate in those gorgeous, hazel eyes of hers as she pointed at him. 

"Oh, you're havin' a grand ol' time at my expense, aren't you, Slayer?" Spike complained. He knew he was coming off as a big grouch. 

Buffy stopped laughing immediately. Her eyes dropped shyly to the floor. "Actually, I thought you looked adorable, just like you do now." 

Spike didn't know what to think anymore, and he certainty had no idea what had contributed to the Slayer's good mood now. Buffy ran hot and cold with him from one day to the next. Just the other night, she had described his old crypt as being "comfy" to the Potential Slayers, and his undead heart had leaped with hope. In the next breath, she had cautioned them that the animal in all vampires was "the same." The comment had hurt him, but he had reminded himself that he should get used to it. 

Now she was regarding him intently, and Spike shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. Did he dare guess what was going through that mind of hers? 

"Hey, truce," she suddenly piped. She held out a mug to him. "Me good Buffy, me bring sustenance." 

Relieved at the chance to change the subject, Spike smiled and took the mug from her and placed it on the workbench. "Thanks, Pet. How are things going up there?" he nodded toward the stairs and grinned. "Everyone still standing?" 

She smiled. "Yeah, it's all good. The girls are grabbing lunch now. I'll have to get Xander to pry some arrows out of the neighbor's shed once he gets home, though," she said, laughing. It's probably a really good thing that you stayed down here." 

Spike raised an eyebrow in amusement and smirked, as it was obvious they were sharing the same memory of Thanksgiving Day three years ago, when Spike served as an archery target for several pissed-off Indian spirits. It seemed like ages ago, now. 

His eyes became suddenly serious, his brow knit with concern. "You look absolutely knackered, Slayer." 

As if on cue, Buffy plopped down on his cot. "I am. I don't sleep very well these days."  
  
"Tell me somethin' I don't know." Spike noted with some sadness that her mouth now forms a frown naturally, the corners tugging down on either side of her full lips, without any effort on her part. He knew that she had lived longer than Slayers are supposed to live. How would she look in seven more years? God, he didn't care. She would always be the most beautiful person in the world to him. 

"Yeah, I hear you creeping around, checking out the place" she admitted. "If you ever get bored, just knock on my door, because I'll probably be up." 

Spike tried to act nonchalant, as though her invitation to chat in the middle of the night in her room was the most natural thing in the world. "Well, maybe I'll do just that." He met and held her gaze, then frowned and asked her pointedly in that deep tenor of his, "Buffy...you know you should chain me up down here at night, don't you?" 

Buffy looked over at the shackles hanging from the wall, and then down at her hands folded in her lap. "Xander says that I should," she said quietly, "but I can't, Spike. I've told you before. I trust you to know when the First is in your head. You'll recognize the signs, if it should happen again." 

She looked up into his eyes and he must not have looked convinced. 

Buffy gulped. "Look, after seeing what the First did to you in that cavern, I can't bear to think of you in chains again. I refuse to restrain you, Spike, unless it becomes absolutely necessary." 

"I'll do my best not to fail you, love, but you gotta be honest with me. If you ever want me out of here, just say so and I'll be gone before you can blink an eye." Spike's voice cracked, "I'd rather die than ever hurt you again." 

He felt his eyes sting and clenched his jaw as he silently pleaded for the tears to recede. He swallowed and regarded Buffy sitting there, gazing up at him with her huge eyes full of trust. She jumped up off the cot and came over to him. She looked intently into his eyes, took his hand and squeezed it. 

"I know." 

Spike watched her walk slowly to the stairs, and then turn to look at him with a smile. As soon as the basement door closed behind Buffy, Spike turned around and placed both of his hands on the workbench, exhaling loudly. Had he been holding in needless breath? He laughed at himself. 

"Don't go off the deep end, Mate...keep your wits about you," he said aloud. Something was going on in that head of hers, and it both excited him and terrified him at the same time. 

Spike lifted the mug toward the basement steps in a toast, "Until tonight, Slayer." 

  
  


**********

Spike could hear the Grandfather clock upstairs chime three times. Fourteen hours, 35 minutes had passed since he and Buffy had parted, but who was counting? 

  
  


"I'm a stupid git." he thought, "Why did I say I might come by her bedroom tonight, or any other night for that matter? Am I losing my mind again?" 

  
  


"Argh!!!" he roared as he paced back and forth in the basement, flinging his hands into the air in frustration.

  
  


Spike sat down on the cot, his head in his hands. He was so overwhelmed by nerves that he hadn't even appeared for what had become a Summers' nightly ritual, a buffet-style dinner served in the kitchen and eaten in both the dining and living rooms accompanied by the sound of the blaring television and the endless chatter of seven teenagers. Noting his absence, Buffy had sent Dawn to the basement with his dinner mug, to make sure he was feeling okay. She also was the bearer of a message: Buffy was not patrolling tonight and had "retired early." 

  
  


At that bit of news, Spike had taken the opportunity to dash upstairs to take his shower and change. Everyone had been involved in an after-dinner movie and didn't pay any attention to him. He had hesitated for an instant at Buffy's door, brushing a promise across the wood lightly with his fingertips before returning to his hiding place in the basement. Waiting for him in the center of his cot had been a large, square box, tied with a pretty bow. 

  
  


"Pretty bow?" he muttered. "What a bloody poofter I've become."

  
  


Now his hands trembled as he turned to look at the package beside him on the blanket. He couldn't bring himself to open it earlier, and had gone back to sharpening axe blades with a vengeance. Just as Spike had been ready to yell upstairs and ask Dawn to bring him the kitchen knives to sharpen, he had caught himself and shut off the grinder in disgust, smiling wryly. Talk about avoidance.

  
  


Spike sighed and finally tugged at the blue silken bow, which collapsed easily, the ribbon falling to the cot in slow motion. With hands as cold as ice, he lifted the cardboard lid and pulled aside the tissue paper. His mouth dropped open in shock, his eyes widening in disbelief. A slow grin broke across Spike's face. His eyes blazed.

  
  


Buffy had given him back his duster.

**********

Upstairs, Buffy sat on her bed and shivered as she heard the clock in the foyer chime the hour of three. All she wore was a camisole and thin, drawstring pants. She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin. She found herself feeling disappointment that Spike hadn't stopped by to talk, especially since she had so much to tell him now.

  
  


Buffy's thoughts drifted back to her encounter with Spike in the basement. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks as she remembered how his back and shoulder muscles had flexed as he had stretched, before he realized she was there. He had looked really good leaning there against the workbench, especially considering all that he had been through. With her tender care, he was healing nicely and had regained his weight. Maybe there were even a few extra pounds on him, which softened his hard edges. 

  
  


Today, when Spike had confessed that he'd rather die than hurt her again, Buffy had seen the emotion that he kept in check. She had never given him any credit for the depth of feeling he possessed - no one had. His soul had not brought that to fore; it was always there. She had just never allowed herself to see it or to count it as being worth something.

  
  


Buffy had found herself very introspective of late. The past several nights, she had been having Slayer dreams. In them, she saw Sunnydale burning and a vast army of Turok-han marching upon the town. How many times had she saved the world, six...seven? She had lost count. She had always been scared as she went into apocalyptic battles, but this time she was shaken to her very core.

  
  


Several journals were scattered on the bed in front of her, filled with her reflections of the past couple of months. If time was short, she wanted to leave something. For whom, she had no idea. Possibly no one would survive to read her accounts, but she had no choice but to explore her life in the hours of the night when sleep escaped her. 

  
  


The questions that plagued Buffy were those a middle aged woman might ask, not a 22 year old. What had she accomplished in her life? Whom had she loved? Had she been truly loved, and by whom? What should she have done differently? What could she do differently in the time remaining? 

  
  


Picking up the snowglobe from her night stand, she shook it and watched the little plastic flakes swirl around inside, looking for a place to fall. She could identify with them; she felt all jumbled up and tense inside, looking for some rest. "Can we rest now, Buffy, can we rest?" The memory of his words sliced through her, into her very soul. A tear slid down her cheek.

  
  


Spike's absence this evening had worried her, but Dawn had assured her that everything was okay. That was before he had opened the box, though, and Buffy started wondering if her "gift" had sent him into a tailspin. As far as she was concerned, the night when he last wore the coat belonged to another lifetime, and that's the message Buffy wanted to send. It was part of him. Spike needed to embrace the demon inside and allow it to merge with William's soul, in order to be complete...in order to be the man she needed him to be, both for the battles ahead, and for her.

  
  


Yes, for her. Gazing at the scribbled pages on her coverlet, Buffy smiled at her accomplishment. She had been writing since early evening, and now a crucial missing piece of her memoirs was finished. Or, was it? This chapter bore the succinct title, "Spike," and she really had to wonder if there could be more to write, someday...if there was a someday even to be had.

  
  


The notes she had made on paper, all of the memories that came streaming back once she opened the floodgates of her mind to let them in, the emotions she felt and had long ago suppressed...they all sang to her now that she took the time to listen. All of the times he could have killed her but didn't; all of the times she could have staked him, but let him go. Why? His anguish, her heartache; his love, her torture. The promises he made and kept, the promises she didn't allow herself to make, but held in her heart. All of the times he had saved the day without the least bit of recognition. The way he loved and cared for Dawn when she was gone. 

  
  


It was so simple. He was hers. She wanted to be his.

  
  


More tears now. It was probably too late. Buffy closed her eyes and pulled an afghan around her shoulders, got up and padded over to the window. She peeked through the curtain; all was still, for now. Ironically, the recent turn of events that could very well herald her death, were causing her to feel more alive than she had in years. She felt impatient and greedy and wanted to possess what life of hers that could be had before all hell broke loose, literally. 

  
  


A decision had been made. If Mohammed wouldn't come to the mountain, the mountain would have to go to Mohammed. Shrugging off the afghan and taking a deep breath, Buffy turned and strode to the door. Halfway there, she heard a soft knock and froze, her heart pounding. Checking her mirror first to make certain her mascara had not run, she smoothed her hair down and softly called, "Come in?"

  
  


The door swung open slowly and Buffy grabbed the bureau to steady herself at what she saw. Before her, leaning smugly against the door jamb was Spike...not the Spike she had left in the basement yesterday afternoon, but a new-and-improved version, hard edges in soft focus, causing her mind to reel and her knees to quake. Black, leather pants, soft, cobalt blue jersey, sculpted cheekbones tempered by docile, blond curls, hard smirk under gentle, blue eyes. The smoldering package was all wrapped up nice and tidy in the leather duster. Note to self: Breathe. 

  
  


"Buffy." 

  
  


"S...Spike, come on in," she managed to choke out. He stepped just inside the doorway, and she had to brush past him to close the door behind him. She noted, with just a little irritation, that Spike was smiling at her while she did so. 

  
  


"I missed you at dinner tonight. You okay?"

  
  


"Yeah, I had to finish up those blades. They're done now," he explained. "I checked around the house. All is secure, and everyone's asleep." His hands were stuffed in his coat pockets.

  
  


Buffy smiled in gratitude. "Spike, please...sit down." She motioned to her mom's wicker chair by the window as she sat Indian style at the foot of her bed.

  
  


Spike sprawled out in the chair in his old, familiar way, the duster splayed behind his legs. "Did you even try to sleep tonight?" he asked.

  
  


"No, I've been writing." Buffy gestured to her journals on the bed.

  
  


Spike raised an eyebrow. "You keep journals?"

  
  


"Yeah, I do now. With everything going on lately, I...I felt like I had to write some things down. The whole process has really forced me to take a long, hard look at myself."

  
  


Spike contemplated her words in what seemed to be understanding.

  
  


"Spike, we have to talk." She could see his body brace, his newfound confidence ebbing away. It was just another example of what her unkindness over the years had done to him. 

  
  


"I've been doing loads of thinking. Please let me finish before you say anything, because this is really hard for me."

  
  


Spike nodded warily.

  
  


"Spike, I'm sorry." 

  
  


He looked thoroughly confused.

  
  


Buffy willed unbidden tears back as she continued, "The pages you see here...I've been writing all about you. I've written down every single thing I can remember about you since the first time we met. I've written about me, too, and about us..." 

  
  


She paused and looked down at her hands in her lap and wrung them nervously. She continued, her voice thick with emotion, "...and about last year, too. And, I know this is really long overdue, but I am so very sorry for all the horrible things I did to you." At that, the tears flooded her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. 

  
  


Buffy lifted her eyes to search Spike's face for any sign of what he might be thinking, but he had sat back in the chair and his face was now shrouded in darkness. She swiped at her eyes and got up off the bed and started pacing, sniffling noisily. 

  
  


"I used you and abused you, and I thought only of myself. I guess I started snapping out of my own little world in the church, when it hit me what you did for me...for us. The enormity of that act...of you seeking out your soul and earning it back...well, it has chiseled away at this wall I had built up between me and anyone who has tried to love me lately, even Dawn." 

  
  


Sobs started wracking Buffy's body, not only from the release of her terrible confession, but from sheer exhaustion. She stopped by her door, her back to him and pulled more tissues out of the box on her night stand, blowing her nose loudly. 

  
  


"Thank you, Spike, for that gift. But, I have to tell you that I realize now that you were good long before you earned your soul."

  
  


Buffy took a deep breath to compose herself, and turned around, "Look, I know I don't deserve your...." her voice trailed off. Spike had been standing right behind her, only a foot away. Her heart lurched as he looked at her with tear-filled eyes, his head tilted in wonder. Energy snapped between them, charging up her body. 

  
  


"Buffy...?" Spike closed the gap between them with yet another step, his eyes never leaving hers. 

  
  


Buffy lifted her hand to his face, and he grabbed it like a drowning man, pressing her hot palm to his cheek. His cool tears spilled over her skin. She couldn't take it anymore. "Spike, I love you. Can you ever forgive me?"

  
  


Spike groaned and folded her tiny body into his arms, the leather duster, that already knew so many of their secrets, enveloping her. He silently thanked the Powers that he couldn't lose his soul in one true moment of happiness, because this was his. 

  
  


The End

  
  



End file.
